Cocos Gold Read online

  Table of Contents

  COCOS GOLD 1. STOWAWAY

  2. ML 615

  3. IRWIN'S MAP

  4 OUTWARD-BOUND

  5. THE STORY OF THE TREASURE

  6. COCOS ISLAND

  7. THE MUTINEERS

  8. THE FIRE ON THE LOOKOUT

  9. TREASURE-CRAZED

  10. THE LANDSLIDE

  COCOS GOLD

  BY RALPH HAMMOND

  HARPER A BROTHERS/ NEW YORK

  Copyright, 1950, by Ralph Hammond Printed in the United States of America.

  All rights in this book are reserved. It may not he used for dramatic, motion- or talking-picture purposes without written authorization from the holder of these rights. Nor may the book or part thereof be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission in writing except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address: Harper & Brothers, 49 East 33rd Street, New York 16, N. Y.

  FIRST EDITION

  TO

  all those—young and old—who have that sense of adventure that sends people in search of the unusual, and particularly to those who have gone to Cocos Island seeking the fabulous treasure of Lima.

  * * *

  * * *

  I am indebted to a number of sources for the background detail of this story. Especially to Sir Malcolm Campbell who was at great pains to give me the clearest possible picture of the island based on his visit there in 1925, details of which later appeared in his book, My Greatest Adventure.

  1. STOWAWAY

  This record of the manner in which I came by Irwin’s map of the Lima treasure and of the strange journey I made to Cocos Island is published with the sole object of clearing the name of a man wrongly accused of complicity in a mutiny. It is the least I can do, for he saved my life. In any case, it was what I promised him as he lay dying. But in the event that anyone should imagine that this record will give him the location of the famous Cocos Island treasure, I must warn him, right at the outset, that though I have included all the directions in the map, he will never recover it. The cave is now covered by a huge landslide and I am the last for many years to have looked on the gold bars and kegs of coins and those two huge statues of the Virgin Mary in solid gold. It is all buried now and others have gone to join the two skeletons that lie side by side close to the rock entrance. All I took out was Irwin’s log of the mutiny on the ML, which is now in the hands of the Admiralty, and the gold and silver dagger with the blood-red ruby in its hilt, which lies before me on my desk as I write.

  The first time I ever heard Cocos Island mentioned was when my guardian, Commander Gurling, was talking to the doctor. They were over by the window opposite my bed. “What the boy needs is rest and plenty of fresh air—sea air,” the doctor said. “He’s been pretty ill. Can you get him away to the seaside for, say, a month?”

  I saw the commander hesitate. My father hadn’t left much money, and I thought this was the reason for his hesitation. “There’s a man I know lives on a houseboat down in Shoreham Estuary,” he said rather doubtfully. He glanced toward the bed and then continued in a lower voice so that I could scarcely hear: “This man was at Dartmouth with me. Got himself into trouble during the war. Ran his ship aground on a place called Cocos Island. Captain dead and the rest of the crew disappeared. He told a story of treasure and mutiny. There was no supporting evidence. He was a bit incoherent—suffering from delayed shell shock and the fact that he’d been marooned on the island. He got dismissed from the service. Queer case.” He shook his head. “These things happen in war, you know. But he should be all right now. What do you think?”

  “Is the boy keen on the sea?” the doctor asked.

  “Good Lord, yes. Just like his father.”

  “And he’s going into the Navy, I understand?” The doctor turned and began to pack his bag. “Don’t see that it can do any harm then. In these things, the mind is as important as the body, you know.”

  Commander Gurling nodded brusquely and turned to me. “Johnny. How would you like a month on a houseboat?”

  “I’d like it, sir,” I answered at once.

  “Fine. I’ll see if I can fix it, then.” He turned back to the doctor. “How soon will he be fit to travel?”

  “Oh, in about a week.”

  “Good.” The commander came over to the bed. “You ought to be able to learn a lot from Kean,” he said. “And don’t worry if you find him a bit strange. He’s had trouble. That sort of thing preys on a man’s mind.” He smiled. “And when you get back we’ll talk about Dartmouth, eh?”

  “The entrance exam is next term,” I said.

  “Time to worry about that when you’re fit again. You’re pretty bright. You’ll pass. I’ll write you as soon as I’ve fixed it up with Kean.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Now I must go and have a word with the Head,” he said. “Good luck, old fellow!” He turned and left the room with the doctor.

  I felt suddenly alone. His blue uniform with the gold stripes of the Royal Navy on his arm had reminded me again of my father. But soon I was thinking of the houseboat. And once the idea had taken hold of my mind I could hardly wait to hear from him that it was fixed. Every time anyone came into the room I asked whether there was a letter. And in this state of excitement I made a quick recovery. Soon I was up and about. At last the letter came. Everything was arranged. I was to go down to Brighton on the Saturday and Kean would meet me at the station.

  That letter was like a travel authorization to Cocos Island. Looking back, it seems as though from that moment everything just had to happen as it did, as though it were inevitable. My father always used to say, “No use worrying, Johnny. If a torpedo’s got your name on it—well, it’s just too bad, and that’s all there is to it.” That’s the way I feel about that letter.

  My excitement knew no bounds as the train rattled slowly through the South Downs. It seemed to stop at every wayside station. But at last the hills opened out and there was the sea, dull and gray and cold above the wet slates of the houses. I got out at Brighton station and searched the crowd at the barrier expectantly as I handed in my ticket. But there was no one there who looked like an ex-naval officer. And though I stood around for more than ten minutes, nobody came forward to greet me.

  The ticket collector closed the gate. “Looking for someone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “He was supposed to meet me here. A Mr. Kean.” I pulled the much-thumbed letter out of my pocket. “Do you know where I’ll find a houseboat called ‘The Bridge of Orchy?’”

  He peered over my shoulder at the letter. “The Bridge of Orchy, Tower Quay.” He read the address slowly. “You better hop on a bus for Shoreham and ask in Shoreham.”

  The bus took me along Brighton water front. The chalky sea was a mass of foam, and rain lashed at the windows. The promenade was cold and deserted. It wasn’t a bit as I’d imagined it. At the end of the water front the Regency houses ceased and we ran into dismal rows of red brick and slate. At last we reached the estuary. On the further bank was a quay backed by great mounds of coal and tall factory chimneys.

  I got off here and made enquiries. Tower Quay proved to be a broken wooden wharf harboring a half dozen derelicts. The planks of the wharf were rotten under my feet, and through the cracks I could see the water slopping about among the weed-grown piles. I stopped and looked over the boats. They were old hulks and none of them seemed to possess a name. A man in a seaman’s jersey and a peaked cap appeared on the deck of what had once been a pilot boat. He was wiping his hands on a piece of greasy rag. “Can you tell me where I’ll find ‘The Bridge of Orchy?”’ I asked.

  He looked me over and then spat into the water. “An’ who might you be wanting on ‘The Bridge of Orchy,’
eh?”

  “Mr. Kean,” I answered.

  “Mister Kean, eh? Well, you won’t find him on ‘The Bridge of Orchy,’ son. An’ what would a nice young feller like you be wanting Mister Kean for?”

  “I’ve come to stay with him,” I replied.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Sort of a payin’ guest, eh? So that’s where ’e got the dough. Well, I ’opes you enjoys yourself, that’s “all.”

  “Can you tell me which is his houseboat?” I asked.

  “Houseboat?” He laughed. “First time I ever heard ‘The Bridge of Orchy’ called a houseboat.” He leaned over the rail and jerked his thumb along the wharf. “There! That’s your houseboat.” He was pointing to a moldering bundle of matchwood shaped roughly like a ship. “Looks more like a chicken coop, don’t it?” And he roared with laughter. “Mister Kean!” He spat over the side again and with a nod disappeared below.

  I wandered along the quay and stood for a moment looking at the boat. At some time in the past it had been painted gray. But now the paint was washed away showing the rotten timbers underneath. It had originally been a small tug, but so many wooden additions had been added that only the rusty plates and the single stack showed its original purpose.

  It was cold on the quay and I was beginning to shiver. The smoke from a nearby factory kept catching at my throat. I climbed the single plank that bridged the gap between boat and quay. A door with a key in the lock slatted back and forth in the wind. I went through this and down the companionway into the musty interior of the ship.

  The gray light that filtered through the dirty portholes revealed a big space that seemed to pass for saloon, galley, and cabin all in one. There was a bunk at each end and in the middle a blackened oil stove in front of which was an old wicker chair and a table littered with bottles. A broken glass lay on the floor. The place was cold and damp, and the air was stale with the fumes of drink and tobacco smoke.

  All my dreams about this houseboat crumbled away as I stared at the awful litter of that cabin. Something moved in the corner by the further bunk and I caught my breath. A large black cat came stiffly across to me and rubbed itself against my legs ingratiatingly.

  I found a bottle of milk and gave it some. It lapped greedily, purring all the time. I opened one of the portholes and let the wind and rain drive in. I got the stove going and started to clear up. If I’d had any money I’d have taken a train to London and gone to my guardian’s flat. Obviously he had no idea how his friend Kean lived or he’d never have sent me here.

  I made some tea and sat wretchedly in front of the stove, wondering what the owner of this hulk could be like. The cat had climbed on to the wicker chair and lay curled up, purring. I had shut the portholes again, but I could still hear the chop of the waves against the tug’s side and the slash of the rain as it beat in across the salt flats on the other side of the estuary. Despite the warmth of the stove I shivered. The light began to fade and I got up in search of a lamp. Then I stopped. Footsteps sounded on the deck overhead.

  I listened, my heart in my mouth. The steps dragged slowly across the deck and stopped by the door to the companionway. I heard a muttered curse. Then the door opened and the footsteps began to descend. The cat looked up from the wicker chair, mewed softly, then yawned and stretched itself. With a soft pad of its. paws it jumped down and walked slowly to the door.

  I don’t know what I expected—some monster I think, roaring drunk and mouthing curses. Instead he was quite an ordinary looking man, tall and rather thin in a frayed suit and a collar that had once been white. He breathed heavily and leaned on the handle of the door as he bent down to stroke the cat that purred round his legs. But it was his face that held my gaze as he straightened up and looked slowly round the room. It was pale and gaunt. His mouth was slightly open and the dark eyes were wide and staring. It was a strange, haunted face. He swallowed twice and passed his tongue across his lips. Then he staggered to the table. His hand shook as he searched blindly. “Where’s the bottle, Nick?” he enquired of the cat.

  “I threw it out of the porthole,” I said. “It was empty.”

  “It wasn’t empty,” he muttered thickly. Then he straightened up with a jerk. “Who the devil are you?” His large eyes focused on me slowly as he stood swaying, clutching at the table for support. “Oh, I know. You’re John Keverne.” He slumped into the wicker chair. “Gurling wrote me about you,” he mumbled. He passed his hand wearily across his face and then swung round on me suddenly. “Has anybody been here? Anybody asking for me?”

  “No one,” I answered.

  He jumped up then and seized me by the shoulders. “You’re lying,” he said between his teeth. “Somebody’s been here.”

  “No one’s been here,” I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. I’d never seen anyone drunk before. And he was scared, too: I could see it in his eyes as they stared at me.

  “Not a man with no fingers to his right hand?” He let me go again and sagged back into the chair. “No. Of course no one’s been here. They’re dead, all of them.” He buried his head in his hands. “Six years!” he muttered. “They couldn’t find me after six years, could they?” He didn’t seem to expect an answer for almost immediately he added in a hopeless tone, “But they will.” And he seemed to shrink into himself, his shoulders shaking. I realized suddenly that he was crying and I think that scared me more than his words or his drunkenness. I wished then that I was more like my father. He hadn’t known what fear was. He’d never been afraid of anything in his life.

  But all at once the man’s mood changed. He got up slowly and caught hold of my arm as I shrank away from him. “Why are you afraid of me, eh? Is it because I’m drunk?” He pushed me away from him and started walking agitatedly up and down, his eyes wild and his fingers combing through the dark hair which the rain had plastered to his head. “What do you know about why men get drunk? You’re only a kid.” He rounded on me quickly. “They broke me. After fifteen years’ service, they kicked me out. Didn’t believe what I told them. And I sit here, alone, and sometimes I wish I were dead, like Irwin.” He looked at me quickly. “You’ve never seen a man dying with a bullet in his guts, though, have you?”

  “No,” I breathed.

  “That’s what I see. He’s there—in my head.” And he hammered the palm of his hand against his forehead. Then he stared at me, breathing hard. “I dream about him. I dream about him, I tell you—him and Farrer. And those swine—” He crashed his fist down on the table. “If I ever see one of them again I’ll kill him; I’ll kill him with my bare hands.” And he held up his hands, the fingers crooked. Then he sagged again and leaned on the table. “But it’s no good. I’m finished. That’s why I get drunk. I can forget them—forget I was ever on Cocos Island.”

  “How long were you on Cocos Island?” I asked, remembering what my guardian had said and thinking to distract him from the horrors that haunted his mind.

  “How long?” He passed his hand across his eyes. “A year. Three hundred and eighty-six days. And if they knew—if—they—knew.” He began laughing as though at some secret joke; then suddenly shouting, “If they knew, they’d come back from hell itself to find out.” He caught at my arm again. “I’ll tell you something, Johnny, something nobody else knows. Come up on deck a minute.” He dragged me to the door and up the companionway, his long fingers digging into my arm.

  He took me round by what had once been the bridge, and there in the teeth of the wind and rain he pointed across the estuary to the blurred outline of the salt flats. “There, do you see it—that boat?” He was pointing to a small gray warship that lay with bows uptilted on the edge of the flats, her stem trailing in the muddy waters. The paint was flaking off her and even in the fading light I could see streaks of rust running down the paint work from stanchions and gun mountings. “ ‘ML 615,” he said. “That’s the boat we sailed to Cocos in. I beached her on Cocos Island. Later the Admiralty salvaged her. I bought her from the Admiralty Disposal people aft
er the war. I was going to run emigrants out to South Africa in her. Paying trade it would have been, too. And then I planned —but I hadn’t the money—not to fit her out to Board of Trade standards.”

  He paused, squinting against the lash of the rain. I tried to loose myself from his grip. I was cold and wet and wretched. I began to shiver. But his hand tightened on my arm. “She’s just a derelict now. But there, if they only knew it—” He didn’t finish, but laughed softly to himself. “Eleven boatloads. That’s the story,” he whispered. “Eleven boatloads. And all I care about is the log Irwin left there. Silly, isn’t it?”

  I think it was the wind and rain that sobered him up, for he suddenly jerked round and said, “That’s between you and me, Johnny. Breathe a word of that, and—” He stopped and gave an uncertain sort of laugh. “But there, I was only joking. She’s just a derelict. Scrap.” And he let go my arm and stumbled down the companionway. In the saloon he stretched himself out on the further bunk and a moment later he was asleep, snoring loudly through his open mouth.

  I soon got used to “The Bridge of Orchy” and to her owner. He took little notice of me. He’d sit for hours brooding in front of the stove, hardly ever going ashore and seldom climbing up on deck until it was dark. He got me to buy the things we needed. Apart from that I was left pretty much to my own devices. And I found plenty to do. There were the nearby boat yards and the ships coming and going in the estuary and the excitement of being on my own in a big town like Brighton. And there was “ML 615.”

  It was the third day of my visit that I went out to her. I didn’t ask Kean. Remembering that strange conversation on the night of my arrival I thought perhaps he would refuse. I took the dinghy and rowed across at slack water. She was grounded in a little creek of the salt flats. The guns had been stripped out of her. But her two Diesel engines were still there, all coated with grease, and through the locked door of the wheelhouse I could see the tarnished brass of her instruments. All that morning I wandered over the ship or stood in the cold sunlight on the bridge with the wheel in my hands, dreaming myself into half the ports of the world. She might not be up to Board of Trade standards. But it seemed to me that all she needed was a captain and a crew, and a tug to pull her off the mud.